The Song has Ended (Part I)
by penelopeglass
Summary: A three part story. Outcasts of Rapture's society get together after the disaterous riots- barricaded in a shop, they learn to accept their differences and rebell against the splicers.
1. Saskia Rundell

PART **I**

**Saskia **

Saskia Rundell reclined in the velvet easy chair and inwardly mused little insanities to herself, things she called thoughts. She sighed dreamily and absently like a young heroine in a romance novel, looking at the mahogany paneled ceiling of the apartment.

Dark wood surrounded her, paneled with pleasantries, heavenly scenes of cherry cheeked cherubs and azaleas. How stupid, thought Saskia. Why would you need pictures of flowers when you live in the sea? Why not fish? Coral? After all there's a reason you left the surface.

She stood up and cringed as she nearly wrinkled her ruffled wine colored gown. It was beautiful and she had picked it out for herself, unlike most of her clothes, which Mama picked for her. Taffeta and it just barely touched the floor. It was strapless, but it came with a jacket. Mama would never let her go out like that just showing her shoulders. Little does she know, thought Saskia with a mental giggle. Little did she know about her escapades with the boys of pauper's drop! Mama's little prude…wasn't.

Her parents were out at the Kashmir, and Saskia was supposed to go a party of her own at 7:30. It was at snobby Alodie Ramsey's apartment. That baby vamp's always telling people that her name means 'wealthy' in French. Like anybody cares, Thought Saskia with disgust. But alas, her parents were friends with Alodie's and so she had to go. She wasn't going to go, her parents would get home at midnight, at the earliest; and so she would be asleep when they came in. She would say in the morning that the party had just ended early.

Walking over to her parent's suite, she reached into the back of Papa's armoire and grabbed a tinned box of cigarettes. Smoking was forbidden to Saskia, It was 'gruff' and 'unladylike,' according to Mama. Bushwa, thought Saskia. Complete and Utter. Cigarettes were damn good, it was Papa's fault he had bought the nice vanilla tasting ones. She opened the tin box, about the size of a paperback, and inhaled the smell of the cigarettes, smiling to herself and closing her eyes. I'm going to get bent tonight, she thought; smiling. But there was a slight melancholia to her eyes.

There was something not quite right about the night. The tension between Ryan and Atlas had been brewing for a while, and many of her secret pauper's drop friends—no, all— were Atlas supporters. Even Hayes… she thought worriedly. But the boy was strong, he was a big six. He'd be okay if anyone pulled anything, right? Right…

She walked over to the mirror in her parent's room, cigarette behind her pale, freckled ear. Taking a golden coloured comb, she ran it through her hair; a pale yellow colour. Honey mead, she called it. Saskia took the red lipstick and put it on her lips, they were pursed and fairly dainty; a feature that Hayes sure did love, she thought with a toothy grin. She put peach power on her cheeks, they were fairly chubby, but Saskia's own body was frail. She stood at 5"3 and it bothered her some. She was 16, after all. Finally, the mascara. It was brown and complimented her eyes, which were dark brown orbs.

She sighed as she smiled to herself; satisfied with her reflection. She pulled her shoulder length hair to a rose bun and waltzed out of the room, and with ease and expertise, reaching into the record collection without looking and pulled out her favorite- Annette Henshaw.

Saskia took the record out of the sleeve, which bore Henshaw's Gibson girl likeness on it, and set it carefully on the record player. She set it on. 'Miss Annabelle Lee' played.

"Who's wonderful, who's wonderful? Miss anna-belle- lee. Who's kissable, who's loveable? Miss anna-belle-lee. Ain't she a pretty lady…?"

"Who's dignified? Who's glorified! Miss Anna-bell Lee!"

She walked into the kitchen and pulled a lighter out of the white wood cabinet, set it on the table, reached over to the pantry and pulled out a flask of gin. "Who's kissable? And loveable? Miss Anna-belle- Me! " she sang to herself, giggling. The lively song ended though, and the sad tune that reminded her of Hayes started playing.

The song started uneasily, but building momentum.

"_My thoughts go back to a heavenly dance_

_A moment of bliss we spent_

_Our hearts were filled with a song of romance_

_As into the night we went_

_And sang to our hearts' content"_

Saskia sat down on the reclining chair and sipped her gin. She hummed along with the honeysuckled tone and sighed as she lit her cigarette, closing her eyes. This song always reminded her of Hayes. She had a very bad feeling about this night, but that's probably just her paranoia. She was always paranoid, right? Just relax, Saskie. She thought to herself. Saskie was Hayes's nickname for her. She took another drag and closed her eyes.

"You and the song are gone

But the melody lingers on

The moon descended

And I found with the break of dawn

You and the song had gone

But the melody lingers on…"

Slowly, she extinguished her cigarette on the ebony ashtray next to her and closed her eyes.


	2. Wes Seton

**Seton**

January 3rd, 1959

3:00am

-You know— thought Seton —I actually can admit to myself just this once that I'm scared… to put it lightly. Says a helluva thing about me that I'm realising this as death knocks on my door. I am scared. Hell, I've been scared since I've been locked in this supply closet with my revolver.—

— I'm going insane… Well shit on a shit, I should've recorded this on an audio vox.—

— Is today the third? fourth? fifth? It's the fourth, isn't it? What a way to spend my twenty-eighth birthday, eh? I wonder what Klara's doing…

I shouldn't have left the girls back at the Seastar. But i had to leave Klara. She's got a knife, right? I had to scramble, though, the chicks were going all splicey n' gettin' strung up n' singing the praises of Atlas and the War. Poor Klara, she looked like a little kid there, all untouched n' wide-eyed n' in a sorry-ass state.

I couldn't help that my girls were all splicers 'cept her! Siren Alley's gone for good-

-Gone like my mind. I'm off the rails. Over n' Out.-

Seton Metaphorically turned off his mind. If only he had an audio-vox…

He ran a hand through his blonde stubble and sighed. He was the only unspliced soul- except Klara, in Siren Alley at the moment.

How had it gotten to this point? It was him, white dress shirt rolled to his elbows, whisky stains, girls around him. Oh tell me more about the army, they'd say. Bitches loved his war stories, even if he was only a mechanic for the navy for all they knew he was a war hero.

The apathetic piece-of-shit war hero. Chickens dug it.

And though… that was 2, 3 weeks ago. Now he was locked in a dark closet with 3 pep bars, an almost empty glass bottle of water and a revolver.

He made a resolution to himself; Like he'd done other years ( To stop pimping. never, he thought with a smirk.)

If help didn't come the next day, he'd blow his brains out.


	3. Klara Bo

**January 3, 1959 6:00am**

It's Klara Bo, honey- Like the flapper.  
That's the first thing she'd say to customers at the Seastar, and after hearing her voice they'd be head over heels.  
Let's just say if Klara's voice had a taste it'd be caramel nougat.

Of course, her looks were what knocked them out, really. She was the typical all american beauty- Slim, Tall, Blonde haired and Blue eyed. American inamorata, actually a Pennsylvania dutch Mennonite by the name of Naomi Grettschull. You read it right, no need to skim over the sentence again. Well, she was too damn pretty for Lancaster, too buxom for crocheting quilts and baking rhubarb pies, and so she left; Abandoned really. 16- Rumspringa- and she decided to leave the dutch for New York City.

It was hard for a little dutch girl to live in New York, but not that hard for a dutch girl who didn't exactly have her morals set in stone. So she took up taxi dancing- you know what that is, right? Ten cents a dance, Ruth Etting? Ring a bell? no? Alright, well you get paid to dance with men- no more, no less. A customer of hers, she can't quite recall his name even though they grew close, told her he was leaving to rapture. Was a Hungarian immigrant. Judging by how they were treated in Rapture, his end probably didn't come so nicely. Klara smirked a little at that. He was a married man after all, but who was she to turn down a dollar or two? So his demise was something of a weight off her shoulders.

So yeah. One thing led to another and she got to rapture. She was like, what? 18? Yeah, 18 and it was 1951. She got to siren alley and the rest is history. Met Wes Seton, love of her life and...

Penn dutch Mennonite Naomi Grettschull. Klara Bo. Best Girl in Rapture (and for a cheap price! BANG! for your buck. Get it?! Bang? Too funny.)

But shit, that didn't really matter now right? How did it get to this point, hm? You know what had happened? Well some fucking hicks decided to shoot up the kashmir. Don't get it wrong, Klara was totally on Atlas's side. But it was damn barbaric to them to go shoot up a party like that._ -I mean couldn't it have waited a day or two? Like, New Years? Fuck.- _she thought Anyways, so that was a breaking point. Splicers were killing everybody from that point on and it didn't seem to cease. Now, she was in some abandoned apartment in Mason's Quarter, Plaza Hedone. She'd been with a customer at the moment and...heh. Well he was a splicer and let's just say that she pushed him out the window. So that was that.

It wasn't really her apartment but it had become hers. The pantry was almost out and she could hear those fucking loons outside screaming. She could've sworn at that moment on a fucking Fontaine Bible that she was the only sane person in Mason's quarter left. Walking to the other side of her apartment she didn't even feel safe. She'd been holed up in the little shitty pseudo orientalist place for four days now.

She sat on the corner of the bed, a butcher knife on the top of the dresser across from her.

What the hell was she going to do, what the hell was she going to do?

She lay back on the bed and sprawled her arms. She wouldn't mind to die right then and there- but Wes, though. The love of her life.

How could you like him? the other girls'd say.

_"Well first of all, sweethearts, i'm fucking gorgeous if you were not aware."_

_"Second of all, you're splicers. All of you. I'm the only one without any scars and shit. So leave me alone."_

She stood up and brushed off her dress, walked up to the teak dresser with the butcher knife, she'd gotten it from the kitchen. And she decided she had nothing left to lose anyways. She'd find Wes and she'd do it now.

_-Well,-_ she thought as she pushed away the dresser that was holding back the door.

_-Here goes nothing-_


End file.
